


Playing Middleman

by luxover



Series: The Family [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's supposed to be an easy job—a shit job, really, just playing middleman between the Godfather and some low-end drug-peddler named Figo—but everything gets turned on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Middleman

Something goes wrong. 

It's supposed to be an easy job—a shit job, really, just playing middleman between the Godfather and some low-end drug-peddler named Figo—but everything gets turned on its head. For starters, that fucking asshole Figo decided that working for Barcelona wasn't what he wanted anymore. 

"It's not about the Don," Figo says. He's sitting back in his fucking folding chair like Villa and Silva don't cause him any discomfort, like they don't make him nervous. He's not taking them seriously, and that pisses Villa off. "It's not about picking one family over the other. Madrid is just letting me keep a bigger cut." 

"And what about the fifteen grand you already fucking owe us?" Villa asks, and Figo shrugs, holds his arms out wide. 

"Not my problem," he says. "Besides, fifteen grand is nothing to someone like Guardiola. He won't miss it." 

"Don't make us ask again," Silva speaks up, and it catches Villa off-guard; Silva almost never speaks, not on jobs. "You're not going to like it if you make us ask again." 

"Are you fucking threatening me?" Figo asks. "You fucking _kids_ think you can just walk in here and demand things because of who you fucking work for? Well, I got news for you, you piece of—"

Silva pulls his gun out, points it at Figo, and his hand is steady. 

"You were saying?" Silva asks, and suddenly Figo looks terrified, his eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them. He knows that they can kill him, no problem, and that Don Guardiola won't care because fifteen grand really doesn't mean that much to him at all. 

But then somebody comes out of the back room holding a drink—somebody that looks just like Figo, dirty and with greasy hair, and _fuck,_ they should have checked the rooms, would have if they thought for even one fucking second that the visit was going to be anything but routine—and he sees what's going on and he throws his glass at them. Water goes flying and the glass hits Villa in the side of the face and he cusses, "Fuck!" and then a silenced shot goes off—Villa's fine, but he's seeing stars and doesn't know about Silva. 

Fingers wrap around his wrist and he jumps for a second, and then Silva's saying, "Come on, come on," and Figo's groaning, cursing, "Fuck you, fuck, that _hurts,_ " and then Silva tugs him out the door and down the steps. 

His vision comes back in spots and he starts to hear someone running down the stairs behind them, and Silva must, too, because he speeds up and forces Villa to speed up with him. Silva's laughing, and that causes Villa to laugh, although he doesn't know why, and when they're finally out the door and in the bright sunlight, they sprint down the sidewalk to the right. There's scaffolding up—some storefront is being redone—and they run into one of the painters, white paint going everywhere. The guy yells, but they don't stop, still laughing and running, Silva's fingers wrapped tight around Villa's wrist. 

A couple of blocks later, they duck into a side alley and no one follows them; Villa takes a second to catch his breath, looks at Silva and at how he's covered in white paint, his hair and his shirt and the tops of his shoes. 

"What the fuck just happened?" Villa asks. There's still laughter in his voice, and that's strange to him because he likes what he does, likes working for the family, but he can't remember ever really having _fun_ on a job before. 

"I don't know," Silva says. His smile is unrestrained and beautiful. "Hold on, you've got—" He reaches out, runs his thumb along Villa's eyelid and the underside of his brow bone. His finger comes back red, a little blood cradled in the bend of his thumb, and then he reaches back, wipes it off on the exposed brick wall behind him. "It was about to drip into your eye," he explains. "You'll probably need stitches." 

"Oh," Villa says. "Thanks." And then, "What happened to Figo?" 

Silva pulls a face, looks a little embarrassed as he says, "He's fine; I only hit him in the leg. I wasn't going to, but—it's nice to have a family to fight for, you know?" 

"Yeah, I know," Villa says, because he'd do anything for Don Guardiola, too; Barcelona's his family, too. And then suddenly, he's hit with want so strong for Silva that he freezes for a minute, doesn't know what to do. 

"You sure you're okay?" Silva asks, but Villa doesn't say anything back, just steps forward and crowds Silva back against the brick. He reaches out, pushes Silva's hair of of his forehead, and his entire hand gets covered in white paint. 

A small part of Villa wants to ask him something, like _Yeah?_ or _Okay?_ but an even bigger part of him wants to be kissing Silva and so he puts his hand to Silva's jaw, leans in and kisses him. Silva kisses back, hard and with teeth, and Villa is surprised because Silva kisses the way he doesn't speak. 

When Villa pulls away, his handprint is on Silva's skin in white, fingers on his jaw and the side of his neck, a thumb curled around by his chin and the opposite corner of his mouth. Villa likes what he sees, even though he knows that Silva is in love with finally being a part of a family and that he is probably falling in love with Silva. 

"You've got paint all the fuck over you," Villa says. 

Silva looks surprised, like maybe he didn't even realize it, and after he laughs a little, he starts scrubbing at his face with the bottom hem of his t-shirt. Villa watches as his handprint spreads and spreads and then disappears. 


End file.
